We’ve started a new tradition in our house, and it was the brainchild of my wife. The three of us – myself, my wife, Kathy, and our son, Robby – hold hands and say a prayer at the beginning of each workday/school day. We ask God to bless us in our many tasks, asking that we keep in mind His word and His example to us through His son, Jesus.
Now, many Christians talk a good game when it comes to prayer, but in practice, well … let’s just say some are left wanting. I try to pray each night, but admittedly, I sometimes sign in but forget to sign out. We’ve been praying together each morning for a couple of months now and not only is it helpful, it really speaks to who my wife is as a Christian, a person and a woman.
If one’s approach to life is measured either with an arrow pointed up or an arrow pointed down, my wife’s arrow is most assuredly pointed up. Kathy always tries to find the positive in just about any situation, and more importantly, in just about any person. She constantly encourages our son to share his smile with others and find the right way to solve problems. I do not hear her speak ill of anyone; if someone has not treated her well, Kathy will say, “Well, maybe they were having a bad day.” She is quick to forgive.
Sometimes she takes the bright outlook to an interesting level: anytime we’re watching a football game and some pushing or shoving breaks out, Kathy says, “Guys, guys. Be nice to each other.”
Kathy loves to laugh. Many a time we’ve been in a movie theater, and she bursts out laughing at a particularly funny scene. She surprises herself when she does this, because she’ll cover her mouth thinking it’s too loud. I just smile when she does that.
Kathy also is moved easily to tears. A dear friend of mine once said of herself, “Oh, I cry at supermarket openings.” That’s Kathy, too. If something moves her, she’ll tear up, be it a passage from a book, some personal encounter or a movie. It’s one of her most endearing qualities. “Don’t ever change,” I say to her.
It’s her zest for life that makes her so special and what drew me to her 12 years ago. I was introduced to Kathy as I was rebuilding my life after my first wife passed away. It was a very rough year, trying to balance the needs of – first – my grade-school daughter, then a house, my career and working through the process of mourning and grief. By the time I met Kathy, I had steadied the ship, but its heading was uncertain. Enter a 36-year-old whose energetic way, tender heart and devotion to God got me back on course.
After being introduced, Kathy and I had our first date in February 1998. It was a remarkable evening. Neither of us was nervous because we talked for two hours BEFORE we went to dinner. She made me feel so at ease, so comfortable. It was her giving nature that first drew me to her, that and her dynamite smile, an amazing combination of warmth and enamel!
After dinner, she invited me in for coffee. I immediately accepted, even though I was not a coffee drinker. A chance to spend a few more minutes with her was perfect. We said our good-byes a short time later, and as I walked down the steps, I felt something I hadn’t in such a long time. I looked back at her, went back up the steps and kissed her good night again. I then realized that my heart, closed off for months, was actually beating again.
Up next: Part 2
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Happy birthday, Elaine
February 1, 1958 does not occupy a particularly significant spot in history. On that date Egypt and Syria merged into the United Arab Republic (it lasted only three years), and the U.S. satellite Explorer 1 was launched.
But it was on that date at a hospital in Greenwood, S.C., that a 37-year-old mother of two gave birth to her first daughter. For the next 14,143 days, this infant/toddler/girl/woman brought light to all the lives she touched. Her name was Elaine Russell.
She grew up in the little mill village of Ware Shoals, S.C., lovingly attended to by her mother, Rachel, and her father, William Delbert Russell. She was also loved – as much as siblings can love – by her two older brothers and, later, a kid sister.
What she brought to this world was a mix of compassion, tolerance, faith in God, intelligence, humor and love that drew you to her. People congregated toward Elaine because once she was your friend, that was it: you were her friend for life. She didn’t pit people against each other; rather, she brought people together, making them feel welcome no matter the circumstance. Many a time people would be visiting and announce that they’d have to leave, only to have Elaine say, “Oh, stay on a while.” Those invitations were sincere.
Elaine fell in love when she was 27, and married a fellow newspaper person when she was 28. If there is such a thing as “marrying up” in life, then her husband surely did that. It was she who brought joy and richness to their union, lifting a man who had been lonely and searching for that one, special someone for a long time. They were in love and devoted to each other, a true doubleheader of life.
Life continued to bless them with their daughter, Rachel, less than three years after they married. Elaine’s daughter was the light of her life, and Elaine was the center of Rachel’s existence. They loved reading together, playing games, entertaining friends and simply being with each other.
Elaine found time to become a free-lance writer, get involved with their church and become a Brownie troop leader.
But this is no fairy tale; it’s a study in the human condition. Humans are, in the final analysis, frail creatures, subject to the randomness and vagaries of life. A pulmonary disease descended with terrible swiftness and claimed this woman on Oct. 30, 1996.
But even as her body betrayed her, Elaine’s mind and spirit wouldn’t succumb to self pity. Her husband found this short essay about a month after she died, written in one of the notebooks she kept.
"Why me?
Why can't I breathe well? Why I am virtually housebound hooked to an oxygen machine? Why have I had three major illnesses in my lifetime when some people breeze through the years without setting foot in a hospital?
Believe it or not, these are questions I have NOT asked myself as I've struggled with my most recent bout with sickness.
A more appropriate question might be 'Why not me?'
In times of frustration, despair or indecision, it's easy to look to the heavens and ask God 'Why me?'
But if I ask that question in troubled times, shouldn't I ask it when things are their sunniest, when life is easy, when everything is going my way?
Why was I born into a wonderful, caring family when so many children are unwanted and unloved?
Why have I been blessed with many friends in many places over the years?
Why did a find a wonderful man to marry and, with him, have a beautiful daughter?
Why do I live in a comfortable home and have plenty to eat while the world is filled with homeless and hungry people?
Why me? What have I ever done to deserve even one of the blessings I've known?"
That last question is one asked by all who knew Elaine Russell in the 38 years, 8 months and 29 days she was with us. None of us deserve the blessings we receive, but maybe we can ask for the wisdom to acknowledge them.
So today, 52 years after she was born, we acknowledge the blessing that was Elaine Russell. Happy birthday, Elaine.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Full Reversal, Part 4
This vulnerable man I write of was, obviously, not always this way. Quite the contrary, Dad was on the other end of the spectrum when I was growing up and even into my college years.
We were raised in an Epsicopal household. That is, my mother took us to church on Sundays. We also would have an advent wreath that we would gather around at Christmastime. But that was about it. I remember seeing my father in worship when I was little, but after we moved a couple of times, the memories of my father being in a church were almost non-existent. Also never brought up with Dad were conversations dealing with Jesus, God or faith. My father’s spirit was so lost that he got up right after I had been confirmed, choosing to leave the sanctuary before the rest of the service concluded. My father viewed most people who went to church as “pagan.”
But then Mom died of lung cancer in the spring of 1979. It was a crushing blow to our family, and it nearly killed my then 54-year-old father. He shook his fists in anger at God and swore he’d show Him a thing or two. Well, guess who won that smackdown?
Slightly more than a year after Mom died, Dad met Sally, a divorcee who was devout in her faith in Jesus and active in her Southern Baptist congregation in Memphis. It was through her example of strong faith that God opened my father’s eyes. I recently told Sally that, with God’s help, she had saved Dad, just as if she had pulled him from a burning house or a raging sea. “Really?” she said. “Oh yes,” I told her. He would’ve been dead a long time ago, consumed by all the bitterness and anger he had inside.
I still remember Dad calling me at my first job out of college to say he had started going to church and truly believed in Jesus’ life, ministry, resurrection and promise. I pulled the phone away from my ear, looked at it and thought, “OK, where is my father and what have you done with him?”
To think that Dad could come to believe, truly believe, in God, Jesus and the promise of salvation is, well, humbling. As Jesus told the no-longer-possessed man, “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” As my father joyfully says today, God did much for Dad, and his spirit was transformed through God’s grace.
As my family enters this new phase with Dad, all of us pray that God’s grace will see us through. I know many people are praying for him, and all of us are grateful for that. But praying is as much for the person asking for God’s help as it is for whom the help is sought. Be mindful that God truly does answer prayers, but the outcome is not always the answer we think it should be. Whenever I pray, I always ask, finally, that whatever the outcome, please help me find the strength to deal with the final result.
We were raised in an Epsicopal household. That is, my mother took us to church on Sundays. We also would have an advent wreath that we would gather around at Christmastime. But that was about it. I remember seeing my father in worship when I was little, but after we moved a couple of times, the memories of my father being in a church were almost non-existent. Also never brought up with Dad were conversations dealing with Jesus, God or faith. My father’s spirit was so lost that he got up right after I had been confirmed, choosing to leave the sanctuary before the rest of the service concluded. My father viewed most people who went to church as “pagan.”
But then Mom died of lung cancer in the spring of 1979. It was a crushing blow to our family, and it nearly killed my then 54-year-old father. He shook his fists in anger at God and swore he’d show Him a thing or two. Well, guess who won that smackdown?
Slightly more than a year after Mom died, Dad met Sally, a divorcee who was devout in her faith in Jesus and active in her Southern Baptist congregation in Memphis. It was through her example of strong faith that God opened my father’s eyes. I recently told Sally that, with God’s help, she had saved Dad, just as if she had pulled him from a burning house or a raging sea. “Really?” she said. “Oh yes,” I told her. He would’ve been dead a long time ago, consumed by all the bitterness and anger he had inside.
I still remember Dad calling me at my first job out of college to say he had started going to church and truly believed in Jesus’ life, ministry, resurrection and promise. I pulled the phone away from my ear, looked at it and thought, “OK, where is my father and what have you done with him?”
To think that Dad could come to believe, truly believe, in God, Jesus and the promise of salvation is, well, humbling. As Jesus told the no-longer-possessed man, “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” As my father joyfully says today, God did much for Dad, and his spirit was transformed through God’s grace.
As my family enters this new phase with Dad, all of us pray that God’s grace will see us through. I know many people are praying for him, and all of us are grateful for that. But praying is as much for the person asking for God’s help as it is for whom the help is sought. Be mindful that God truly does answer prayers, but the outcome is not always the answer we think it should be. Whenever I pray, I always ask, finally, that whatever the outcome, please help me find the strength to deal with the final result.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Full Reversal, Part 3
One of my Dad’s characteristics when we were growing up was his emotional distance. Sure, we’d see him laugh and, oh boy, get annoyed or angry. But the first time I saw my father cry was when I was 21, and he told us that Mom’s lung cancer surgery did not go well. I remember how shocked I was that he was even capable of crying. He always seemed to have those spigots disconnected. Maybe he didn’t have tear ducts, I thought, thinking he was impossible to read.
Now, more than 30 years later, staying in that assisted living/nursing home facility, my Dad is an open book.
My first full day there with him, I saw my father cry more than in the previous 52 years of my life. Dad cried when my step-sister and I finally got him to realize he didn’t have to have a job. Dad cried when he talked to my brother. Dad cried when Sally and another step-sister, Sara, came to see him.
Dad confessed that when he saw his father cry a lot near the end of his life, he didn’t think much of it. “I thought it was so weak,” Dad said. “No, Dad,” I said. “It’s a sign of strength that you can let your emotions go. You have to let 'em go.”
The letting go was important because it showed everyone a side of him they doubt existed. Before she left for home, my sister Barb had told him, “You’ve been like a pineapple. All prickly and rough on the outside, but real sweet on the inside.” I kept driving home the importance of people seeing that sweet side a lot more than the prickly side. Anne and Sara both said they had never seen this tender side of him. “He’s like a lost little boy,” said Sara with tears in her eyes.
I think it goes back to my father’s childhood. He grew up in rural Arkansas during the Great Depression and had two parents who were not the warmest people in the world. His father – 44 when Dad was born – lost, then gained back, all he had three times in his life. His mother was a school teacher and principal who didn’t show him a lot of affection. Dad was shipped off to a school in Memphis when he was 13 by parents who wanted to give him a good education, but forgot about the emotional needs of an adolescent. Consequently, Dad formed an emotional wall around himself, rarely letting anyone in. Of course my mother, then Sally were able to scale that wall, and while he didn’t show it a lot, my siblings and I knew we were allowed inside the wall, too. But no one was inside the wall all the time; not us, not Mom and not Sally.
Now with the walls down, Dad is vulnerable to all that surrounds him. Like Sara said, he truly is like a lost little boy, one who needs his parents. Those parents are younger than he is, but they love him dearly and will help guide him through uncharted waters.
Now, more than 30 years later, staying in that assisted living/nursing home facility, my Dad is an open book.
My first full day there with him, I saw my father cry more than in the previous 52 years of my life. Dad cried when my step-sister and I finally got him to realize he didn’t have to have a job. Dad cried when he talked to my brother. Dad cried when Sally and another step-sister, Sara, came to see him.
Dad confessed that when he saw his father cry a lot near the end of his life, he didn’t think much of it. “I thought it was so weak,” Dad said. “No, Dad,” I said. “It’s a sign of strength that you can let your emotions go. You have to let 'em go.”
The letting go was important because it showed everyone a side of him they doubt existed. Before she left for home, my sister Barb had told him, “You’ve been like a pineapple. All prickly and rough on the outside, but real sweet on the inside.” I kept driving home the importance of people seeing that sweet side a lot more than the prickly side. Anne and Sara both said they had never seen this tender side of him. “He’s like a lost little boy,” said Sara with tears in her eyes.
I think it goes back to my father’s childhood. He grew up in rural Arkansas during the Great Depression and had two parents who were not the warmest people in the world. His father – 44 when Dad was born – lost, then gained back, all he had three times in his life. His mother was a school teacher and principal who didn’t show him a lot of affection. Dad was shipped off to a school in Memphis when he was 13 by parents who wanted to give him a good education, but forgot about the emotional needs of an adolescent. Consequently, Dad formed an emotional wall around himself, rarely letting anyone in. Of course my mother, then Sally were able to scale that wall, and while he didn’t show it a lot, my siblings and I knew we were allowed inside the wall, too. But no one was inside the wall all the time; not us, not Mom and not Sally.
Now with the walls down, Dad is vulnerable to all that surrounds him. Like Sara said, he truly is like a lost little boy, one who needs his parents. Those parents are younger than he is, but they love him dearly and will help guide him through uncharted waters.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Full Reversal, Part 2
Big sister Barb had greeted me as I walked into the assisted living/nursing home facility. She had been there nearly a week already, watching Dad slip between lucidity and la-la land. It had taken a toll on her. “It’s just so hard,” she had confessed. “I’m worn out.”
Part of the problem was CAT scans had revealed that Dad had had a series of mini-strokes over the last several years. Taken individually, these strokes were barely noticeable, easily dismissed as the effects of aging on a man in his 80s. But cumulatively, they had sapped Dad of physical and emotional energy and dulled his sharp mind.
Add that to his episode of dizziness and nausea nearly two weeks earlier, and the result is an 84-year-old man getting up in the middle of the night, wandering the hospital halls in his birthday suit, trying to tell the nurses that people were stealing things from the hospital and putting them in their cars; or that he was seeing whales swim by his bed; or that he was in Minneapolis, when actually he was in Nashville.
Still, he had improved enough in those first few days to be transferred from the hospital to the assisted living/nursing home facility. After seeing Dad in his room, Barb and I took him outside to enjoy the beautiful autumn afternoon in middle Tennessee. Dad’s conversation with us was clear and funny as we reminisced about the past.
But then he looked at me and said, in a very serious tone, “Mark, I’ve got to find a new job. I lost my job last week, and I need to find work.” Dad had retired 15 years ago, but he was worried about his dear wife, Sally, having to sleep on the street.
My sister and I exchanged glances as if to say, “Here we go again.” We let him ramble for a while, then changed the subject. It’s odd how a past anxiety can mix with current stress and uncertainty to produce a very real, but ungrounded, fear.
That anxiety crept up again the next day, when my step-sister, Anne, was visiting. God bless her because Anne listened to that for a minute, then told Dad, “You’re going down one of those little bunny trails again.” It was a perfect response, and I followed that by telling Dad that he had been retired for quite a while, and he had a nice home and plenty of money.
“But what about that house in Little Rock that has all that furniture? We need to get that out of there,” Dad said. Anne and I patiently explained to him that he didn’t have a house in Little Rock, that he and Sally had moved from another city in Arkansas six years ago. Any extra furniture had been sold, so everything was fine. “Really?” he said. “Sure enough,” I answered.
Once again, the children became the parents and the parent the child.
Part of the problem was CAT scans had revealed that Dad had had a series of mini-strokes over the last several years. Taken individually, these strokes were barely noticeable, easily dismissed as the effects of aging on a man in his 80s. But cumulatively, they had sapped Dad of physical and emotional energy and dulled his sharp mind.
Add that to his episode of dizziness and nausea nearly two weeks earlier, and the result is an 84-year-old man getting up in the middle of the night, wandering the hospital halls in his birthday suit, trying to tell the nurses that people were stealing things from the hospital and putting them in their cars; or that he was seeing whales swim by his bed; or that he was in Minneapolis, when actually he was in Nashville.
Still, he had improved enough in those first few days to be transferred from the hospital to the assisted living/nursing home facility. After seeing Dad in his room, Barb and I took him outside to enjoy the beautiful autumn afternoon in middle Tennessee. Dad’s conversation with us was clear and funny as we reminisced about the past.
But then he looked at me and said, in a very serious tone, “Mark, I’ve got to find a new job. I lost my job last week, and I need to find work.” Dad had retired 15 years ago, but he was worried about his dear wife, Sally, having to sleep on the street.
My sister and I exchanged glances as if to say, “Here we go again.” We let him ramble for a while, then changed the subject. It’s odd how a past anxiety can mix with current stress and uncertainty to produce a very real, but ungrounded, fear.
That anxiety crept up again the next day, when my step-sister, Anne, was visiting. God bless her because Anne listened to that for a minute, then told Dad, “You’re going down one of those little bunny trails again.” It was a perfect response, and I followed that by telling Dad that he had been retired for quite a while, and he had a nice home and plenty of money.
“But what about that house in Little Rock that has all that furniture? We need to get that out of there,” Dad said. Anne and I patiently explained to him that he didn’t have a house in Little Rock, that he and Sally had moved from another city in Arkansas six years ago. Any extra furniture had been sold, so everything was fine. “Really?” he said. “Sure enough,” I answered.
Once again, the children became the parents and the parent the child.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Full Reversal, Part 1
My dad and I share a common bond, one that has, inexplicably, run through my family for the last 100 years. My father, his half brother, his father and I all lost our first wives at an early age. Some may call it a curse, but I consider it a source of strength in times of trouble. Certainly, it has drawn my father and I closer through the knowledge of a journey into the fires of mourning and grief.
He hugged me tight 13 years ago as my wife lay dying at Duke University Medical Center and said, choking back tears, “I sure wish I could take this blow for you.” I gazed at him and said, “Sorry, Dad. It just doesn’t work that way.”
Since that time, there has been an unshakable link between us. We know the depths of each other’s heart, realizing that a monumental loss can be followed by cataclysmic personal change which leads to a new, fulfilling chapter of life. While that link is strong, our roles were always familiar: He was the father, I was the son.
But now, that has changed. It’s changed for my sisters and brother, too, as we watch Dad, 84, begin to slip into the wisps of old age and fog of infirmity.
This came to a head in the past two weeks as Dad was hospitalized with severe nausea and vertigo. He began to hallucinate and dream, the walls crumbling between imagination and reality. It appears as if he had been taking his medicines only sporadically, if at all, and this probably had caused his spiral downward.
As I walked in to visit him in the assisted living/nursing home facility last week, I was greeted not by the strong, somewhat emotionally distant figure I had grown up with, but by a man who had been stripped of his emotional armor. From his bed, he burst into tears as he greeted me. “Well, hey big guy.” Dad said. “I’ve really had a big fall.”
It was as if my son had scraped his knee and had come running to me in tears. “I know you’ve had, Dad,” I said as I hugged him and gently kissed him on the forehead. “It’s OK. Everything will be OK.”
He hugged me tight 13 years ago as my wife lay dying at Duke University Medical Center and said, choking back tears, “I sure wish I could take this blow for you.” I gazed at him and said, “Sorry, Dad. It just doesn’t work that way.”
Since that time, there has been an unshakable link between us. We know the depths of each other’s heart, realizing that a monumental loss can be followed by cataclysmic personal change which leads to a new, fulfilling chapter of life. While that link is strong, our roles were always familiar: He was the father, I was the son.
But now, that has changed. It’s changed for my sisters and brother, too, as we watch Dad, 84, begin to slip into the wisps of old age and fog of infirmity.
This came to a head in the past two weeks as Dad was hospitalized with severe nausea and vertigo. He began to hallucinate and dream, the walls crumbling between imagination and reality. It appears as if he had been taking his medicines only sporadically, if at all, and this probably had caused his spiral downward.
As I walked in to visit him in the assisted living/nursing home facility last week, I was greeted not by the strong, somewhat emotionally distant figure I had grown up with, but by a man who had been stripped of his emotional armor. From his bed, he burst into tears as he greeted me. “Well, hey big guy.” Dad said. “I’ve really had a big fall.”
It was as if my son had scraped his knee and had come running to me in tears. “I know you’ve had, Dad,” I said as I hugged him and gently kissed him on the forehead. “It’s OK. Everything will be OK.”
Friday, October 2, 2009
Tattoo fatigue
Let me state up front that I’m a 52-year-old white male, born into a middle-class family in the South. I have lived in some different places: the Midwest, the Northeast, and a few locations throughout the South. I am, modesty aside, a fairly open-minded person. Self-expression and the desire to get in touch with an inner self is OK with me, as long as no one is hurt and the rights of others are respected.
But, holy cow, can we please cease-and-desist with the tattoo fixation in this country? No matter where I go, I see people with tattoos. And they aren’t on some covered-up part of the body. They are blazoned on shoulders, arms, hands, feet, legs, necks, upper backs, lower backs, chests and abdomens.
The majority of these tattoos are not small: They are huge, and they are ugly. I’ve seen swirling balls of fire, dragons, flowers, skulls, footballs, nude women, nude men, college logos, names of girlfriends, names of boyfriends, glasses of beer, crucifixes, devils, you name it.
One of the more shocking developments is the number of women who have them. Many of the tattoos are like Roseanne Barr: big and loud. In the grocery a few months ago, I saw a perfectly nice young mom near the checkout line. She had her toddler in the proper spot on the cart and was getting ready to unload her groceries on the conveyor belt. Then she turned her and I saw this huge, blue-and-red tattoo of a snake creeping all over her right shoulder.
Aaaaaah! Have people lost their minds? Do they have any clue on what that thing is going to look like in say, oh about, 15 years? First, it won’t be on her shoulder, it’ll be on her lower back once age starts to works its magic. Second, it will be twice the size it is now, since people gain weight as they get older.
Here’s the big kicker: there will be buyer’s remorse. I promise you at some point, the vast majority of people who have decided to engage in so-called body art will say to themselves, “Gee, should I have done that?” The fact that they ask themselves that question means the answer is “No.”
It wasn’t always this way.
When I was a kid, I would see an adult with a tattoo, but 99.99999 percent of the time, it was a veteran who had an anchor or the Marine Corps symbol or some other military-type tattoo on a bicep or forearm. It was a point of pride for these grizzled veterans, but even then there were some regrets about having it done.
Even as recently as 10 to 15 years ago, you wouldn’t see tattoos stretching from shoulder to wrist like the sleeve on a shirt. I’m convinced that most people who have tattoos fall into one of four categories: 1) the decision was spur-of-the-moment; 2) they were egged on by friends; 3) liquor or some other substance was nearby; or 4) all of the above.
Someone once told me that getting a tattoo was a good conversation starter. Excuse me? You could also start a conversation if you had an axe in the head, but I don’t see that becoming the rage anytime soon.
How about this: next time someone you know is thinking about getting a tattoo, ask them, “Is this something you would still want on your body in 10 years?”
Piercings are also a big thing these days, but the crucial difference is piercings grow over and can go away by simply not putting in the earring, stud or whatever piece of jewelry fits in the spot. The body repairs itself.
Tattoos are forever … forever a pain and a stain.
But, holy cow, can we please cease-and-desist with the tattoo fixation in this country? No matter where I go, I see people with tattoos. And they aren’t on some covered-up part of the body. They are blazoned on shoulders, arms, hands, feet, legs, necks, upper backs, lower backs, chests and abdomens.
The majority of these tattoos are not small: They are huge, and they are ugly. I’ve seen swirling balls of fire, dragons, flowers, skulls, footballs, nude women, nude men, college logos, names of girlfriends, names of boyfriends, glasses of beer, crucifixes, devils, you name it.
One of the more shocking developments is the number of women who have them. Many of the tattoos are like Roseanne Barr: big and loud. In the grocery a few months ago, I saw a perfectly nice young mom near the checkout line. She had her toddler in the proper spot on the cart and was getting ready to unload her groceries on the conveyor belt. Then she turned her and I saw this huge, blue-and-red tattoo of a snake creeping all over her right shoulder.
Aaaaaah! Have people lost their minds? Do they have any clue on what that thing is going to look like in say, oh about, 15 years? First, it won’t be on her shoulder, it’ll be on her lower back once age starts to works its magic. Second, it will be twice the size it is now, since people gain weight as they get older.
Here’s the big kicker: there will be buyer’s remorse. I promise you at some point, the vast majority of people who have decided to engage in so-called body art will say to themselves, “Gee, should I have done that?” The fact that they ask themselves that question means the answer is “No.”
It wasn’t always this way.
When I was a kid, I would see an adult with a tattoo, but 99.99999 percent of the time, it was a veteran who had an anchor or the Marine Corps symbol or some other military-type tattoo on a bicep or forearm. It was a point of pride for these grizzled veterans, but even then there were some regrets about having it done.
Even as recently as 10 to 15 years ago, you wouldn’t see tattoos stretching from shoulder to wrist like the sleeve on a shirt. I’m convinced that most people who have tattoos fall into one of four categories: 1) the decision was spur-of-the-moment; 2) they were egged on by friends; 3) liquor or some other substance was nearby; or 4) all of the above.
Someone once told me that getting a tattoo was a good conversation starter. Excuse me? You could also start a conversation if you had an axe in the head, but I don’t see that becoming the rage anytime soon.
How about this: next time someone you know is thinking about getting a tattoo, ask them, “Is this something you would still want on your body in 10 years?”
Piercings are also a big thing these days, but the crucial difference is piercings grow over and can go away by simply not putting in the earring, stud or whatever piece of jewelry fits in the spot. The body repairs itself.
Tattoos are forever … forever a pain and a stain.
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